


I just need a quiet place where I can scream how I love you

by untakenbeepun



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burns, First Kisses, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, crowley especially, everyone is pining, foot washing, i really hope this isn't too foot fetishy, nothing graphic, soft, this demon sure is full of A LOT of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 17:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untakenbeepun/pseuds/untakenbeepun
Summary: After the incident in 1941, Aziraphale takes Crowley home and washes the burns on his feet.





	I just need a quiet place where I can scream how I love you

It was the first time Aziraphale had ridden in a car.

Crowley could tell by the way he sat ramrod straight, one hand curled around the seat, the other hugging the leather bag of books to his chest. He could tell by the pale look of the angel’s face, lips pressed together like he wanted to throw up, if that were the sort of thing angels were able to do.

There was something else on his face too, something pensive behind his eyes, something about the way he kept looking over at Crowley and then looking away, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Something had changed between them. The moment Crowley had pulled that book bag from the hand of a dead Nazi, passed it over to Aziraphale and he’d given him _that look – _the look like he’d handed the angel all the suns and the stars instead of a bag of stuffy old books – something had changed.

He’d felt it in the way their fingers had brushed together, just for a moment. It was the barest touch, but it still felt momentous.

“I’m sure you’re not supposed to drive those contraptions so fast,” Aziraphale said as they both got out of the car, the first thing he’d said since Crowley had offered him a lift home. “It can’t be safe.”

Crowley said nothing, just watched him carefully behind his glasses, elbows pressed firmly on the top of the Bentley, waiting to be asked in, waiting to be dismissed.

“I don’t suppose you want to come in for a spell? Keep inside while those dreadful things are still going off?”

Crowley knew that no bombs would fall on them that night, but he nodded anyway, said, “alright,” and then followed the angel inside the bookshop.

He took stock of his surroundings – he hadn’t been there in eighty years, after all.

“Hasn’t changed much,” he noted.

“Oh, well, you know me. Creature of habit and all that,” Aziraphale said, looking anywhere but at the demon.

He was twitching oddly, twisting the ring on his little finger around and around.

_He’s nervous, _Crowley realised with a start.

“Want to come into the kitchen for some tea? I think I still have some in the back of my cupboard somewhere. Haven’t got anything sweet, I’m afraid. This terrible rationing business has _ruined _everything – my _dear, _are you limping?”

Crowley cursed himself inwardly. He’d been doing his best not to let the pain show on his face, but it’d been rather difficult – the soles of Crowley’s feet burned horribly, and every step felt like he was walking on nails. Consecrated ground was not friendly.

“I’m fine, angel, don’t worry.”

“Was that from walking in the church?” Aziraphale said, horrified.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, you can barely walk.”

“It’s _fine._”

And then, to Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale was reaching for his feet. “Take your shoes off.”

“What? No.”

“Crowley, I need to see the damage.”

“You do not!” Crowley said, and hopped away from him, wincing when he landed on his burnt toes.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, “_please_.”

Crowley had never been able to say no when Aziraphale looked at him like that, all wide-eyed and soft. With a sigh, he let himself be led over to Aziraphale’s lumpy sofa, pulling off his shoes and socks to reveal ugly red gashes on the bottom of his feet.

He almost magicked new ones back on when he saw the sorrowful look on Aziraphale’s face.

“This is my fault,” he said, and then sped off into the kitchen.

“Angel, wait—”

But he was already gone. He returned shortly with a bowl full of water in one hand, a towel in the other.

“Aziraphale, don’t—” Crowley began, but it was too late.

Aziraphale had knelt down in front of him, head bent as deft fingers reached for Crowley’s bare feet, and all words of protest faded from the demon’s lips. 

“I can’t do much about divine wounds,” Aziraphale said, “but I can clean them at least.”

Crowley didn’t trust himself to speak.

It was strange, his feet resting in the china bowl laid out beneath the sofa, Aziraphale’s gentle touch against his skin, the sharp sting of the water against his burns. He couldn’t recall them ever having this much contact, not once in their thousands of years of knowing each other. It was oddly intimate, Aziraphale bowed in front of him. If Crowley wanted to, he could reach out and run his fingers through the angel’s hair.

Instead, he curled his hands around the folds of the sofa cushion, head bending back against the sofa, heat flaring on his cheeks. 

He had to stop himself from protesting when the touch stopped, instead opening his eyes a crack and watching Aziraphale through half-lids. His head was still bowed in front of him, staring down at the angry red gashes on the soles of Crowley’s feet.

“Angel?” 

“You shouldn’t have done this for me.”

“What?”

“You... hurt yourself for me.”

The brave part of him wanted to say, _I’d do it a thousand times over. _

The coward part of Crowley actually said, “eh, it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing, and you know it, Crowley.” 

Aziraphale lifted his head and the look on his face – wide, sincere eyes, mouth in a straight line – made Crowley’s limbs itch with the sudden need to run. Something told him they were heading towards a conversation that they’d been dancing around for millennia.

“You rescued me,” he said, almost accusatory.

“...and?”

“And...” Aziraphale said, his voice trailing like he was trying to find the right words, frowning as he continued, “...and your side wouldn’t like it.”

“I also blew up a church so there are some points in my favour,” said Crowley, dryly.

“Why did you do it?” Aziraphale asked. “We haven’t spoken in seventy-nine years. We fought. Why?”

“Because we’re friends, angel,” Crowley said, but it felt like a lie.

‘Friends’ didn’t seem to cover what they were to each other, too small a word for something that was too huge to comprehend.

Aziraphale sighed like he’d said something wrong.

Outside, the bombs were still falling, the air-raid siren still blaring, the windows to Aziraphale’s bookshop rattling. 

Instinctively, Crowley and Aziraphale inched closer to each other, despite knowing that between Crowley’s will and Aziraphale’s miracles, no bombs would fall on them tonight.

It didn’t stop Crowley’s hand reaching out for Aziraphale’s shoulder without him asking it to, hovering in the air when he realised what he was about to do. It sank limply back onto the seat.

“The favours you’ve done for me,” Aziraphale began, his voice desperate, “the rescues. Why?”

Something churned in the pit of Crowley’s stomach.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, his hand hovering in the air again, reaching for Aziraphale’s face.

He’d hung his head in front of him again, bowing as if in prayer, like he was begging for forgiveness or pleading for another rescue.

Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s chin, their eyes meeting. His sunglasses had slipped off a while ago, and yellow eyes met blue.

“I’d do it again and again and again for you,” Crowley said softly. “Over and over and over.”

“_Why?” _Aziraphale pleaded.

Crowley’s heart thrummed loudly against his veins. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes,” Crowley said, his fingers sweeping across Aziraphale’s cheek, “you do.”

Aziraphale’s hand reached to curl around Crowley’s. “I’m not supposed to – I’m an angel – I’m _not supposed_ _to like you.”_

“But you do.”

“Oh, heaven help me, my dear, _I do.”_

Crowley sank towards the floor as Aziraphale rose up, his fingers catching on Crowley’s jacket, burying his face into his chest.

“We can’t. Our sides—”

“Screw our sides.”

Aziraphale inched back, blinking.

Crowley’s hands slid around the sides of Aziraphale’s face, eyes blazing. “Let’s make our own side. No heaven. No hell. Just you and me.”

“Crowley, I_ can’t_—”

“Say yes,” Crowley pleaded. “Say yes and I will spend every day for the next millennium by your side, I will move mountains, I will stand against heaven and hell for you. _Just say yes.” _

Their lips inched closer, a breath apart before Aziraphale tugged away.

“I can’t,” he said sorrowfully. “Heaven won’t – I can’t risk you.”

“It’s my risk to take,” Crowley almost hissed.

“What about hell? You said it yourself, they’re not the kind to send rude notes.”

“They’re _my _problem, angel.”

“They’ll be my problem if they hurt you.” 

“_Please,” _Crowley begged.

Aziraphale stood up, moving away from him, fiddling with the buttons on his suit. “I think you better go,” he said.

“Angel...” 

“Please, Crowley.”

Crowley surged forward, taking his hands in his. “If this is what you want, what you _really _and truly want, then I’ll go, and you won’t hear another word about it from me,” he said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands tight when the angel refused to look at him, “but if you’re just saying this for the sake of our sides, from the places that we came from, I’m begging you, choose me. Choose me, and choose yourself, and forget heaven and hell and just – choose me. _Please._”

Aziraphale stared at him for a good long moment, big eyes wide, and for a few seconds, Crowley actually thought he was going to say yes.

And then, Aziraphale slipped his hands away from Crowley. “_I can’t.” _

“Aziraphale...” Crowley whispered, something tearing apart in his chest.

“I think you should go,” Aziraphale said, looking anywhere but the demon.

Crowley opened his mouth, ready to state his case, ready to beg and plead and promise until Aziraphale changed his mind, but instead, he turned and left the bookshop, without so much as another word.

It would hurt too much to try.

* * *

Thirty years later, they found themselves sitting in a car in Soho, Aziraphale holding a tartan flask and looking at him in a way that made Crowley’s skin shiver.

_Do you know how much of a wonder you are? _He thought to himself. _Do you know how much I want you?_

When Aziraphale passed the flask over to him, their fingers brushed, just barely, the first contact they’d had since Aziraphale had washed his feet and rejected him.

It was barely a millisecond of contact, hardly worth mentioning, but even so, Crowley’s thoughts were flooded with memories of Aziraphale’s touch, deftly moving over the burns on his feet, pulling on his shirt. His head was full of searing touches and almost kisses, and every part of skin _itched. _

It was all Crowley could do to keep himself from tugging on Aziraphale’s hand and pulling him close, close, closer, running his fingers through his hair, touching, kissing, holding on tightly and not letting go for the next millennia.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe one day we could go for a picnic,” Aziraphale said. “Dine at the Ritz.”

Hope flooded in Crowley’s chest, hope that he’d long since buried deep in his chest and locked away.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he said, eyes searching Aziraphale’s, heart whispering _please, please, please. _

And then, Aziraphale frowned, looked him in the eye and said, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

And Crowley let out a sigh.

* * *

Seventy-eight years after the foot-washing incident, the world was ending and Aziraphale had rejected him twice and been burned to a crisp along with his bookshop.

And then the world wasn’t ending anymore, and Aziraphale was _alive, _and hope had begun to claw at his heart again, a steady rhythm thrumming on the surface of his veins, _please, please, please._

And after a disastrous visit to each other’s head offices, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves hovering outside the bookshop, full up from dinner at the Ritz.

“Well,” Aziraphale said.

“Well,” Crowley said.

They were standing on the threshold of something, a pendulum swinging between two fixed points, a fork in the road. Whichever path they took, they couldn’t turn back.

Crowley opened his mouth and then closed it.

“Aziraphale—”

“—Let me wash your feet,” Aziraphale blurted.

“What?”

Crowley looked nonplussed.

“Let me wash your feet,” he said, and then, for good measure, “please.”

Crowley said nothing for a few seconds, just blinking. “My feet aren’t dirty,” he said rather lamely a few moments later.

“Just... please?” Aziraphale said.

The demon’s shoulders tensed; his hands thrust into his pockets. “This isn’t some weird sex thing, is it?” 

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale scoffed, scandalized.

“Why do you want to wash my feet?”

Aziraphale sighed, bending his head. “Traditionally feet washing is a sign of one person giving their respect,” he said. “Or in my case, begging for forgiveness.”

Tension leaked out of Crowley’s limbs, his features as soft as his voice as he said, “Angel. What do you need to be forgiven for?”

“I seem to be racking up a long list.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “As if I have such a clean conscience where you’re concerned.” 

“Please, Crowley. Allow me this.”

“You don’t need to wash my feet, angel.” 

“I want to.”

There was a pregnant pause between them, a crackle like electricity in the air. Aziraphale’s arm hung in the air like he couldn’t decide whether to offer his hand or not. Crowley watched the thought process going on behind Aziraphale’s eyes, before the angel firmly opened up a hand towards him. 

A moment passed. And then another.

And then Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand.

It was just like the day seventy-nine years before, Aziraphale on his knees and Crowley on the sofa, trying to keep his pulse at a steady level. 

He watched in silence as Aziraphale squeezed a flannel into a china bowl of warm water – the same bowl as last time, he noted – and wondered if the angel could sense the way his heart was pounding because, to him, it was the loudest thing in the room.

“You don’t have to do this,” Crowley said. “There’s nothing for me to forgive.”

He felt the urge to tuck his feet under himself so that Aziraphale couldn’t get to them, but he had a feeling that he wasn’t getting out of this.

“Just let me do this, please,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley had never really been able to say no to him, so he let Aziraphale guide his feet towards the bowl.

His touch was featherlight across the bottom of Crowley’s feet, frowning as he took in the faded red mark on his skin.

“It never quite healed, did it?” Aziraphale said, sadly.

“Nope,” Crowley said, not trusting himself to breathe. “Never could quite get it to disappear completely.”

Aziraphale frowned, eyes brimming with an emotion that made Crowley’s heartache.

“No,” Crowley said, slapping a hand over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Don’t say it. You’re not allowed to say it was your fault.”

Crowley could see the angel scowl, even with his hand covering half of his face.

“I’ll let you speak if you say it wasn’t your fault.”

Aziraphale frowned but gave a slow nod. Crowley lifted his hand.

“But it _was_ my fault, Crowley—”

Crowley gave an exasperated sigh.

Aziraphale looked at him with a worried sort of frown as if he wanted to argue some more, but instead, he settled for reaching for Crowley’s feet again.

Crowley dug his fingers into the side of the sofa as Aziraphale’s fingers touched his skin. Somehow it was far worse than the first time they’d done this; Crowley had endured rejection after rejection from Aziraphale – the urge to reach out and pull the angel into his arms and kiss him until the sun burned out for real was too strong to bear, but the fear of being let down again was stronger still. He thought he might burst into the flames from the weight of it all, too much for him to handle.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, “I need—”

His voice trailed off as he rose from his knees, his fingers curling into Crowley’s shirt.

This scene was looking all too uncomfortably familiar.

Aziraphale moved closer and Crowley’s breath stopped, his hand covering Aziraphale’s.

“Don’t,” he whispered, “Aziraphale, please. Don’t do this if you’re just going to regret it later. I couldn’t – I couldn’t handle it this time.” 

Aziraphale inched back for just a moment, something passing across that wonderful face of his that Crowley couldn’t quite read. Then Aziraphale’s hands lifted to curl around Crowley’s face.

“Oh, my dear, I really haven’t been fair to you, have I?” Aziraphale said, his fingers tracing the line of Crowley’s jaw, circling his cheek. 

Crowley’s skin pricked from Aziraphale’s touch.

“If I haven’t made it clear enough,” he began, pulling Crowley close and kissing him softly, foreheads pressing together. “I choose you. I choose you over heaven, over hell. I choose you over everything. I should have chosen you before. I choose you now, I’ll choose you tomorrow, and I’ll keep on choosing you until the world finally does end, and then I’ll choose you with whatever comes after that. You’re all I ever really wanted, Crowley, ever since we watched it rain on Eden, and I am so sorry that I was so blinded by what I thought was expected of me and my fear of heaven that I didn’t see you standing right in front of me.”

“_Angel,” _Crowley whispered reverently, his heart pounding, blood rushing through his fingers as he encircled Aziraphale in his arms, and he kept whispering, “angel, angel, angel,” in between kisses, holding him so tight, like he was afraid he might disappear.

“I love you, my darling demon. I am so sorry I made you wait for so long.”

Crowley held him close to his chest, a lump forming in his throat, six thousand years’ worth of tension lifting from his chest, like he could finally let air into his lungs after a millennium of waiting to breathe. There were a thousand unspoken words in that embrace, a hundred apologies, and enough forgiveness to last them for the lifetime they had ahead of them.

And then, after a sniff, Crowley said, “I love you too, angel.”

“I know, my dear. I know.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [bee-elzebub](https://bee-ezlebub.tumblr.com/) and on twitter at [@untakenbeepun](https://twitter.com/untakenbeepun)


End file.
